


Give a Heart, Get a Throne

by EllenEmbee



Series: Revelations [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blushing Alistair (Dragon Age), But not for Alistair, Canon Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Eventual Fluff, F/F, F/M, Jealousy, POV Multiple, Pining, Soulmates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9445139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenEmbee/pseuds/EllenEmbee
Summary: A collection of short drabbles to fill in my Warden Surana's backstory in the Revelations World State (to which the other works in this series belong). Told from multiple perspectives, but mostly Neria, Alistair and Leliana. Will focus on the Origins timeline but could extend beyond if there's interest. Will include little to no game material unless requested.





	1. Darkspawn Presses

After scrubbing his skin raw to rid himself of the latest round of darkspawn blood, Alistair throws on a clean tunic and heads back to camp. Leliana, Zevran, Wynne and Neria are gathered around the fire talking and laughing and drinking. Even Morrigan has joined them, though she remains quiet, and Woof lays beside Neria, his head resting on her thigh.

Noticing his return, Neria gestures him over and pats the spot next to her. He tries to stifle the unwarranted hope the minor gesture excites in his chest.

“Come sit, Alistair!” she encourages.

He fights off a blush as he joins them. Setting his armor aside, he sits down next to Neria and listens to the ongoing conversation.

“No, no,” Zevran objects with an emphatic negating gesture, “you cannot tell me that the darkspawn _train_. That is just too ridiculous.”

Neria laughs. “But how do they all know how to use weapons? Surely not everyone who gets turned into a darkspawn is a fighter.”

“It’s part of the brood mother job description,” Alistair interjects. “Birth darkspawn, teach them the ways of the hack, stab, slash, complain about the lousy benefits. You know, all in a day’s work.”

Neria nearly spits out her drink as she snickers at his joke. She smiles widely as she passes him the bottle, and he takes a swig, the liquor burning his throat like the blood burning his cheeks at her attention. She’s always laughed at his jokes. Not the “I’m just humoring you” kind of laugh, but the real “I actually think you’re funny” kind of laugh. It never fails to both terrify him and spur him into more concentrated efforts to amuse.

Maker, he loves hearing her laugh.

“But really, what I want to know is how they build muscle. Do they have special magic from the Blight that gives them strength?” Leliana pipes up, a jovial grin on her face.

Morrigan actually groans at this and looks as if she’s about to leave. However, Zev shoves the bottle in her hand before she can stand up. She stays.

“It’s a matter of proper technique,” Alistair explains with mock sincerity. “The darkspawn have such methodology, such organization, such-”

“Such appalling lack of manners,” Wynne provides.

“Yes, appalling,” he agrees, encouraged by Neria’s continued chuckles. “Elbows on the table, dirty knickers under the bed…”

Neria bursts into laughter, but calms herself enough to add, “But that doesn’t explain the muscles, Ali.”

“Well, they do push ups and lifts, of course.”

She quirks a brow at him. “Is that what you do?”

High on her laughter, he grins and flexes the the arm nearest Neria. “But of course.” He nods his head at the muscle bulging under the tunic. “You want to touch?”

“Uh, what kind of question is that? Of course I do!”

Alistair freezes as her hands - both of them - wrap around his flexed bicep and _squeeze_.

“Maker’s balls,” she breathes. “That’s nice.” After another moment, she nods her head curtly. “Very well. I accept your premise. Darkspawn do presses.”

Alistair just stares at her. His face is burning. Not just his face. All of him.

“Ahahaha… yes! Right. My premise. Darkspawn presses! Haha! I should, uh… put my armor on now. I’ll be back in… in a bit.”

He scrambles away to his tent, leaving Neria looking after him, confused. Zev and Leliana share a look - one lecherous, the other displeased.


	2. Lead and Follow

Leliana watches the dark-haired Warden from the corner of her eye as they travel north along the main road. Weary from long days and fierce fighting, she can no longer control her gaze. She should keep her distance, but exhaustion and the Maker conspire against her.

Or perhaps for her.

Although they have only recently come together in the name of stopping the Blight, a woman such as the Warden - even one so young - commands respect, compels loyalty. The elf's easy stride, open heart and quick smile further endear her to her ragtag companions, and Leliana is not surprised that Neria has gradually become their de facto leader. Wynne dotes on her like an overprotective grandmother. Zevran slips little compliments and sly smiles her direction every chance he gets. Sten does not grumble so much when she is nearby. Even the witch, Morrigan, occasionally converses quietly with the elf and _smiles_ from time to time.

To her chagrin, Leliana finds she is not immune to Neria's quick wit, compassionate innocence, and youthful beauty. But neither is the other Warden, Alistair.

He is the one she graces with her company more than any other. He is the one she leans on when she is tired or frightened or upset. Leliana tells herself this is normal. The Wardens share a bond no other can touch, tied together by the corruption in their blood and the tragedy in Ostagar. But he, the senior Warden, defers to her in all things. He looks at her as if she is his guiding star, a lodestone, a lantern in the darkness. And it's easy to see why.

Neria positively bleeds sunlight.

The more she tries to cover it, the more it violently seeps out of every pore, every word, every look. Her magic, all storms and clouds, natural and vicious, can't dim that inner light. It shines on, even when evil threatens to overwhelm them. Even now, knowing the darkness nips at their heels, Leliana can see it shining as a beacon of hope. And when Neria turns, looks into Leliana's eyes and smiles, the timid seeds of healing that began in a Lothering Chantry blossom under the warmth of it.

Her chest _burns_ with the rightness of it.

They push on, forward, eager to reach their destination, but evening falls. They must camp. Alistair builds up a fire and sits quietly waiting for the stew to warm. Leliana sits across from him, folding her legs under her as she begins repairing the fletching on a few arrows she retrieved from highway men who attacked them today. Neria approaches, but to Leliana's surprise, she does not sit next to Alistair.

"Hello," come the warm tones as the elf seats herself beside Leliana. "How are your supplies holding out?"

Leliana smiles but does not look away from her task. "Well enough. I dare not save the arrows that pierce darkspawn hide, but the blood of a common highway bandit is easy enough to wash away. I also took all their unused arrows. After all, what do dead men need with arrows?"

Neria hums out a laugh. A silence wraps around them, buzzing and full. But then Alistair smiles - not at her, but at Neria - and Leliana knows the smile has been shared, offered by one, accepted and returned by the other. Leliana's heart deflates, and her typically sure movements turn stilted.

"You told Wynne a story last night," Neria says, "but I only caught a snippet. It sounded interesting. Would you mind repeating it for me?"

Leliana's fingers pause on the fletching, the softness of feather tingling under her skin, her heart expanding enough to flutter weakly. Her eyes move to take in the bright eyes, curious gaze of her elven companion.

"I do not mind."

Neria smiles, and it's as if a thousand suns blaze in the sky. Leliana catches a breath in her lungs, transfixed, but slowly, she comes to her senses enough to begin the tale. Others gather around, but Leliana sees an audience of one. One vessel of light in the sea of darkness, one brilliant star in a blanket of night.

The bard joined them in Lothering because of a vision from the Maker and a desire to make things right. She stays to bask in the warmth of a Warden's smile as long as possible.

She stays for Neria.


	3. A First Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neria reflects on her newfound freedom from Circle life.

The days leading up to the battle of Ostagar still haunt her - a blur of endless walking, soft Circle feet bloodied and blistered, mind shrouded in a haze of shock, regret and eerie foreboding. No amount of glorious sunsets or lack of rules could impress themselves on her at such a time.

But now, sitting here outside the light of the fire, staring up at inky black pricked by millions of sparkling lights, Neria can taste it on her tongue, feel it down to her bones.

Freedom. Pure and potent. No walls. No tower blocking out the sun. Just wide open expanses she recalls only vaguely from her time before the Circle, as if from some sugary sweet dream.

It’s a strange kind of freedom, she knows. Some wouldn't think of it as freedom at all. She and Alistair have a duty, a responsibility to uphold, friends to avenge. Necessity dictated her path, but regardless, she’s _chosen_ this life, and she revels in it as much as she can.

Alistair shifts beside her, a soft scraping of metal on soil, and she turns to catch him watching her instead of the sky. His head snaps away, and her brows furrow. A vague thought flits through her consciousness, a suspicion of something deeper, but it flies away as quickly as it came.

Instead, thoughts of gratefulness, of fondness settle around the fringes of her mind. Alistair is her comfort, her rock, her solid support as the ground keeps shifting under her feet. He held her hand, figuratively of course, during the time before Ostagar. She supports him now in his loss - their loss, really, for though she'd only known Duncan a couple of weeks, he'd been the first person to treat her with true respect. She will never forget that.

“It's a lovely night,” she comments, attempting to pull him from his thoughts.

He hums noncommittally, his head tilting up to face the vast expanse. “Night skies tend to remind me of my insignificance… I get enough of that from Morrigan, thank you very much.”

Neria pulls a face he can't see in the darkness. “I'm sorry about that. If I felt we had any choice… if I thought we could get away with turning down anyone's help…”

Alistair faces her in the darkness and reaches for her hand. She's been waiting for this moment since they sat down, knowing how the small action grounds him, anchors him in the present when his thoughts try to drag him back to the putrid hill littered with the corpses of his dead comrades. He'd first taken her hand in a fit of despondency just after their flight from Lothering. She thinks she depends on that touch of comfort as much as him these days.

“Is that why you kept Zevran on?”

“Partly. I guess… he's different. The kill was a job. He failed. If he tried now, it wouldn't matter to his employers, so he has no reason to betray us.”

Alistair grunts, as close to an agreement as she knows she'll get with him… at least on that topic.

“Besides," she adds, "he's useful, and I find him amusing.”

“Oh? Has he been putting on shows when I'm not looking? Juggling and acrobatics? I only ask because a good juggler is hard to find. We could make a killing in the entertainment circuit.”

Neria snorts softly and, without much thought behind it, leans over to butt her head against his armored shoulder. The soft clink of stiffening metal betrays his reaction, and she pulls back quickly.

“With you in your dress dancing the Remigold?” she queries.

The distraction works. “I believe the stipulation was for your eyes only, madame. You'll need to use all your Wardenly wiles to get me to perform in public. Contrary to what some might think, I am quite discriminating about my ruffles.”

“Hmmm,” Neria replies as if making a mental list, “find a pretty dress, ensure adequate ruffles. Shall we ask the darkspawn do you think? Surely an Archdemon with as much panache as ours has an opinion on ruffles.”

“I'd expect nothing less,” Alistair affirms, his voice adopting a hint of the joviality she so loves. “But we'll have to make sure to catch it in a good mood. Performers can be so temperamental.”

Neria giggles softly and then sighs. She wants to hug him, but more than a hand hold seems to make him nervous. She settles for squeezing his hand.

“Perhaps we can ask it in our dreams tonight.”

She tries for light and irreverent. Her voice falls flat instead, harsh against the quiet calm of the night. The stars flicker wildly in a silvery rebuke as her thoughts grow loud in her head once more. Freedom is a balm in these moments. No curfew. No threat of force if you disobey.

No, indeed. Poor decisions in this great wide world mean injury and possible death. But the choice is  _hers_ , nonetheless, and that is... something.

“If… uh… you want to… to lean on my shoulder, you can. Before… when you did before, it just surprised me. I mean, if you want.”

Neria doesn't give him time to take it back. Her head finds the least pointy section of his pauldron and rests there, content to have another small piece of him, another thing he shares only with her. She sighs happily, vaguely wondering if he's reading her mind. Can Grey Wardens do that to each other?

“This is nice,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he breathes.

She smiles into the darkness and once again squeezes the hand still locked in hers. Her eyes find the sky, each pinprick reminding her not of her insignificance, but of the enormity of the choices before her. Perhaps one day the gossamer sheen will wear off, the novelty and sparkling newness giving way to weary resentment. For now, however, freedom sings to her in the vision of a night sky denied to her for too long, the open vastness of a world in need of saving, and the hand of a dear friend clasped tight in hers.


	4. A Fool's Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a lovely prompt from alistairway-to-heaven: What did Alistair think of Neria when they first met?

Alistair crosses his arms, leans against the stone wall and sighs in frustration. The vantage point from the top of the stairs allows him a view of the entire encampment, but his eyes stare unseeing into the crowds as he curses his luck.

"Great first impression, Alistair," he mutters to himself.

Duncan's newest Warden recruit had entered the ruins moments ago and found him arguing with another mage. Not that Alistair dislikes mages on principle. Far from it. But _that_ one... Maker preserve him, mage or no, Alistair could not resist sassing the pompous, self-important man.

It wouldn't have mattered except that she is, of course, a mage as well. Taking Alistair's disdain for the one as dislike for all, she'd been distant with him at first, a wary hesitance coating her words in a dripping unease, especially after finding out he'd once trained to be a templar. In an instant, wariness morphed into cold distrust. Thankfully, she'd warmed slightly by the end of the conversation - a wobbly laugh at his joke, a surprising quip of her own in return.

Only time would reveal whether her laughter be authentic or merely polite. He wants to believe it genuine, but experience has taught him to be wary.

He refocuses and watches her retreating form weave through the organized chaos that is King Cailan's army, her graceful steps avoiding testy mounts and careless soldiers swinging their weapons. She stops by the makeshift shop, ostensibly to make some purchases, and he takes the opportunity to size her up in a way he hadn't dared while under the scrutiny of her suspicious chocolate eyes.

Her chestnut hair, pulled up in a respectable top bun, glints iridescent in the bright sunlight. Her robes, too light and flimsy by half for a real battle, hang loosely from her lithe elven form, as if she's lost weight since donning them at the Circle. With Duncan's fast pace and meager rations, Alistair concedes she probably has. Her cheeks blaze red, burned from days of travel, and it occurs to him that her skin has likely seen little of the sun since her life in the Circle began - whenever that might have been. The top of a simple but serviceable staff rises above her head from where it attaches to her robes in the usual way, announcing her power to all around her.

Objective acknowledgment of her beauty crosses the threshold between his subconscious and conscious mind in the blink of an eye. The next moment, he hastily shoves the thought down deep where all his unwanted thoughts go - to the place where it won't escape his tight leash and run around bothering anyone. He vaguely wonders how many unwanted thoughts he's shoved down there throughout the years. Hundreds? Surely not thousands. His brain to mouth filter is too loose for that. Every other evening in the Chantry spent mucking the stables, peeling potatoes, scrubbing floors or whatever chore they could come up with proves that point.

His eyes flutter back to the tawny-skinned mage now speaking to the man who cares for the army's mabari. She leans over a particular stall, occasionally glancing up at the man and nodding seriously. A love for mabari is nigh on a requirement for a Ferelden, but for her to take notice of an apparently sick and abandoned pup... His chest tightens and tingles slightly, and he absently rubs at the awkward sensation through his breastplate.

Despite her charms - which Alistair is decidedly not thinking about - he wonders at Duncan's choice. The older Warden's hurriedly scrawled message indicated she'd be a powerful mage, but finally meeting her face to face, she seems... fragile. Then again, they've only just met, and he hasn't witnessed her fighting skills. If her skills prove adequate and her humor genuine...

A wide grin bursts onto her face like the sun breaking free from the clouds of a passing storm, and another strange rush of sensation burns through his chest, the warmth spreading up and out even as his heart gives an extra hard _thump_ against his ribs. A small gust of air escapes his lips, and he stills.

What would it be like to have a friend who not only understands his humor but actually finds him funny? The other Wardens, men and women he now calls friends after six months of eating, sleeping and training together, merely tolerate his strange jokes with a good-natured roll of the eyes. It is enough. And yet, the idea of having someone with whom to share those little idiosyncrasies, the strange thoughts and observations that others find trivial or inconsequential, causes an answering smile to break apart his lips.

But he shouldn't get his hopes up. Hope leads to disappointment - Arl Eamon's best lesson later reinforced by the Chantry. With the Wardens, he's found a place where he feels like he _fits_. To hope for more would be foolish, especially as they have yet to complete the Joining.

Wry, self-deprecating laughter bubbles from his lips as he pushes off the wall to prepare his own pack for their journey into the Wilds. A restless excitement builds in his limbs, and Alistair acknowledges his own truth.

He is nothing if not a fool.


	5. If you can't beat 'em...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a lovely prompt from alistairway-to-heaven: What did Alistair think as they prepared for the joining knowing Neria may not survive?

Alistair hands the vial of darkspawn blood to Duncan and then steps back. Preparing for the ritual isn't dangerous for a Warden, but Alistair knows that careful preparation will reduce the risk of a failed Joining. The brief thought sends a chill down his spine. He tries to banish the memories, but the dark shadows claw their way from his subconscious and dredge up images of his own Joining - a man not much older than himself writhing on the ground, clutching his throat, shrieking in agony. Even after all the horrors Alistair has experienced with the Wardens, the images linger, seared into his mind's eye, catching him in unguarded moments and summoning a roiling fury in the pit of his stomach.

Unsettled, Alistair shifts and shakes his head. He breathes in sharply and turns his focus to Duncan's expert hands working through the ritual. When the older Warden finishes, his weathered hands come to rest on the makeshift table, and he glances toward Alistair.

"Where are our new recruits?"

Alistair stands up a little straighter at Duncan's attention. "I've told them to meet us here when they've cleaned up from our foray into the Wilds. I believe the mosquitoes made quite a meal of Jory. Thought him a tasty, fleshy treat in the midst of darkspawn and skinny bog wolves, no doubt."

"I see." The corner of Duncan's mouth twitches in an almost smile, and he pushes off the table to fully face Alistair. "So, what do you make of them?"

Alistair shrugs. "Oh, uh, they're alright, I suppose. Jory is a bit tense, but a good fighter. Daveth is sensible and fights well. He'll make a good Warden."

Alistair stops. Duncan raises a brow. Alistair knows he needs to continue, to speak matter-of-factly, but his tongue thickens in his mouth as he thinks of cheerful, dulcet tones in the midst of all the darkness surrounding them. Such brightness. Such...

"And the mage? Neria?" Duncan prompts.

"Her physical combat skills are weak," he manages through the sudden fog in his brain, "but she's a talented mage. It won't be long before she's turning everyone into toads and taking over Fereldan. She's uh... she's..."

_Smart. Charismatic. Kind. Beautiful._

"She's off saving a mabari from the Blight right now, I think," he finishes lamely.

Whatever Duncan had been expecting, that clearly isn't it. "She's what?"

"She found a flower that can cure the taint in Mabari, apparently. She's Ferelden, alright."

Duncan's mouth finally finds it's way to a proper smile just before he turns back to check on the goblet. Alistair finds his mouth running away with him.

"She, uh, she was the one who ended up getting the witches to cooperate, you know. I didn't trust them, but she just... Just seemed to know what to say to turn them into putty in her hands. Evil, witchy putty."

"I saw her potential when she owned up to her mistakes at the Circle," Duncan muses quietly. "I'm glad you agree with my assessment. She is soft still, so I'll expect you to protect and teach her."

"Of course," Alistair agrees a little too quickly. To cover, he deflects. "What happened at the Circle, by the way? You didn't mention in your messages."

Duncan shakes his head. "That is her story to tell, not mine. Suffice to say she had little choice in coming with me, but I would not have offered if I did not believe her capable of becoming a good Warden."

Alistair nods, his curiosity pricked by Duncan's vague words. He finds it difficult to believe she could do something so heinous that her life would be in danger.

Alistair's eyes gravitate toward the goblet. The goblet that will seal her fate - all their new recruits' fates - one way or another. A cold pricking at the nape of his neck brings hand to skin. He rubs absently, eyes focused on the cup of darkness that without the ritual would turn them into ghouls, but even with the ritual could...

"It's alright to say you like her," Duncan's soft voice assures, "even with the uncertainty."

Alistair swallows. Hard.

"I d-do. I like them all. I just hope..."

He trails off, blood-curdling screams ripping through his memories once more, and he physically cringes as, unbidden, his brain replaces that unfortunate soul with Jory, or Daveth, or...

"I do, too," Duncan replies quietly.

It is all that needs to be said between them. Silence descends, pushing them downward into their own thoughts. Soon after, the recruits arrive, and the Wardens share a look, a tacit acknowledgment of the possibilities hanging from their consciences like drowning stones.

It cannot be helped. A final look, a shared nod, and they begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you. 
> 
> As always, prompts for Alistair x Neria or Leliana x Neria are welcomed!


	6. Distractionary Tactics

Sitting in front of the fire, legs crossed and shoulders slumped, Neria bends over her staff, inspecting the crack along the length. Will it survive another fight? Maybe... if she is careful. One can't always be careful when fighting darkspawn, however.

She huffs out a sigh and runs her fingers over the gap in the wood. They are running low on funds, and a new staff will set them back. Not that Bodahn won't give her a generous discount. She hates relying on it, though, knowing that a merchant must make a living as much as anyone else. At least their travels often procure new customers for him.

A quiet clink of armor on her left brings a fleeting smile to her face. It falls to a thin line, however, as her fingers catch on a splinter. She hisses and heals the wound immediately, but not before Alistair notices.

"Are you hurt?" comes his concerned voice.

She shakes her head but does not look up at him. A distracting awareness, an itch in her skin at his nearness, overwhelms her. She frowns at the new but growing feeling. She first noticed it on the way to Redcliffe - the way his presence calms and excites and confuses her all at once. Dangerous. Enthralling. And impossible.

"Alright, _were_ you hurt, then?"

"Just a splinter. It's fine now."

"You should market that skill, you know. Grey Warden, fighter of darkspawn and healer of splinters and papercuts that might otherwise destroy the world as we know it."

She can't help the hum of laughter in the back of her throat. She quickly wipes the humor from her face and glares at him.

"Shush. You're distracting me."

Alistair snorts indelicately. "Well, that is what I do best, after all. Me and my distractionary tactics."

Again, she cannot resist an exasperated smile in his direction. She can't seem to resist _him_. His eyes sparkle with unadulterated mirth, and she feels something squeeze in her chest, a strange, somewhat unwelcome sensation that sets her on edge. His smile should not affect her this way. She cannot allow it. Not knowing what she knows now.

She imagines she can see it, royal-but-tainted blood pumping through his veins, each steady heartbeat proclaiming his future, his destiny. He will make a good King, she decides, but as sheltered as she'd been in the Circle, even she knows kings don't take elves as queens.

She turns to him then, an appraising glance, a sizing up, a painful pricking at the area suspiciously close to her heart.

"You do many things well, Ali. I wish I could make you believe it."

A flush of red, visible even in dim firelight, creeps up his neck and over his face. He remains silent, but his eyes do not waiver.

She swallows hard, ripping her gaze from his soft... _is that adoration?_ She cannot allow it.

And yet when he takes her hand, she does not pull away.


	7. Stayin' Alive

"Tell me something true."

Leliana turns to her companion. The ingrained caution, a wariness she expertly stows behind a cool exterior, causes a hiccup in her chest when she meets earnest chocolate eyes sparkling in firelight. She doesn't lie as often as she used to. Doesn't mean she can't or won't. Problem is, she doesn't _want_ to lie to this particular companion.

"What kind of truth do you seek?" Leliana deflects.

Neria's clear, trusting eyes flick to the flames licking at the wood of their small fire as she considers Leliana's question. Finally, the elf shrugs and bestows a persuasive smile on her audience of one.

"Whatever truth you are willing to give. I can offer a truth of my own in return if that helps motivate you. Anything you choose."

Leliana shivers imperceptibly at the offering and wonders if she ought to have gone to bed when Sten and Wynne had retired for the night - the former with a grunt and the latter with an admonishment not to stay up too late. Already deep in the Brecilian forest, they had decided to push on instead of returning to the main camp, which meant setting up watches and wards. She'd stayed up to help Neria with both.

Leliana knows she should rest. One should sleep as much as possible the night before infiltrating a werewolf den. But she cannot seem to leave Neria's side... no matter how dangerous the conversation becomes.

"Indeed, that is a powerful motivator, but it is unwise to allow me to choose," Leliana teases. "What if I demand to know your deepest, darkest secret?"

"You'll have to give me something equally deep and dark, then," Neria fires back with a grin.

The teasing light in Neria's eyes fades as she stares at Leliana, and Leliana loses herself for a moment. Visions invade her tightly armored heart - soft porcelain skin under her fingertips, desire-brightened eyes closing in fevered delight at a single touch. Leliana's gaze turns soft and unfocused, but when she remembers herself an instant later, her eyes sharpen like glinting steel to scan her companion's face for any hint that she's betrayed herself.

Neria quirks her head to the side in an unspoken question. Leliana rips her gaze away and turns toward the fire, eager to avoid further scrutiny, eager to tuck away the futile thoughts. Neria's preference for Alistair is well known by all of them, though at least Zevran knows now to keep his mouth shut. A vague threat to his ability to make children did the trick, mostly because he knows she could do him serious harm if she so desired.

And she's done much worse than that. In Orlais. Before she found the comfort of the Maker and His Bride. Before she realized she wasn't exempt from the harsh realities of The Grand Game. Before Marjolaine.

A tentative hand on her shoulder sends a shiver snaking down Leliana's spine. She turns to find Neria wreathed in a glow of concern.

"You don't have to, Leli. I only thought to make conversation."

The nickname soothes her fractured thoughts, and before she can think better of it, Leliana rests her cheek against the fingers on her shoulder in yet another betrayal by her subconscious. She jerks her head up and whips an apologetic smile over her shoulder before staring into the fire once more.

Foolish. So incredibly foolish.

Leliana treasures Neria's friendship - the delight in the elf's expressions as Leliana tells her stories and sings songs, the soft slide of chestnut silk when she allows Leilana to play with her long hair, the ferocity of her loyalty as she defends her companions both on and off the battlefield. But for Leliana, it is more. More than the awareness, the desire of the flesh to touch and taste. It is a deep longing that Leliana finds more and more difficult to stifle the longer she basks in Neria's light.

A trill of alarm echoes through her chest as she recognizes the feeling. It is, quite simply, love. Abiding, unconditional, expansive. A state of mind she once claimed as Maker-sent. Instead of a love betrayed, however, she now bears the burden of a love unrequited and the additional burden of an awareness that neither of them is likely survive this journey.

Despair and anger, once neatly buried by her Chantry sisters, surges from that deep, dark part of her, weaving poison into bittersweet words of truth.

"You wish for something true, no? I will tell you this truth. Every day that I can see the world through your eyes is a gift, for I cannot see the light on my own. We fight an impossible battle. We push forward when others would give up. I expect every day that I will die. But to die..." Leliana turns abruptly and catches Neria's cheek in the palm of her hand. "To die for you would be an honor."

Neria's eyes widen, her breath turning shallow as they lock gazes. For once, Leliana dares an attempt at reading the emotions buried in the dark pools threatening to drown her in softness and sunlight. Leliana sees the surprise and concern, but in those depths rests a glimmer of something else. Something that, in another time, another life, Leliana would have pursued to the ends of Thedas.

"Leli."

At the husky glide of Neria's voice, Leliana sucks in a quick breath. Before she can pull away, however, Neria covers Leliana's hand with her own.

"Leli," she repeats, urgency coloring her tone. The world slows to a stop, and Leliana fights the desire to focus on those lips she is desperate to taste and instead drinks in the healing words spilling from them. "My dearest friend, if you need me to be your light... I will be whatever you need. You and I, we will do battle together, protect each other, comfort one another. You are too important to me to be lost in this fight. This is my truth: You _will not_ die for me. We will live through this, together."

Overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude, Leliana unconsciously leans forward, every part of her aching for this feeling - the downy cheek under her palm, the slender, calloused fingers slipping between hers. Inches away, their gazes still locked, breath mingling, she realizes what she's doing. She stops...

But Neria closes the remaining distance to rest her forehead against Leliana's flushed brow. The moments slide past them, time measured in the crackling of fire and creaking of insects. Still Neria stays, her hand locked with Leliana's as it falls into the space between them, her closeness a balm to Leliana's bitterness.

"I should go to bed," Leliana finally murmurs into the comforting quiet that has settled between them, though every fiber of her being rebels against the thought.

"That's probably wise," Neria acknowledges softly as she pulls away slightly and lifts her gaze to Leliana's. "Tomorrow will be a difficult day." Leliana does not move, does not breathe, as Neria raises a trembling hand to cup Leliana's cheek and whispers, "Make no mistake, Leli. I will not lose you, nor you me."

Leliana's heart constricts to the point of pain even as an explosive but bittersweet happiness threatens to tear her apart. It is enough to be loved so dearly as a friend. She will be satisfied.

"Goodnight, then, dearest," Leliana says with a tender smile as she reluctantly slips away from the warmth of Neria's touch, away from her light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts welcome as always!


	8. A Delicate Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran's keen observation skills are put to good use.

Night descends with a misty blanket of dew, providing much-needed relief from the blistering Ferelden sun. The heat here does not suffocate as it does in Antiva, but the glare becomes harsher, more raw, so far South. Or perhaps circumstances color his perceptions. He knows not.

Zevran lazily raises a cup of wine to his lips and ponders the turn his life has taken. His presence in the motley group had been more of a strange punishment than an actual invitation to join, but still...

He finds the elven Warden's naivety endearing. She expects things of him. Expects him to see the world as she sees it, to become someone better than the person he had been. She gives him space and encouragement (and gifts) at every turn, and shockingly, he finds he wishes to be better - if only to protect her lovely naivety a bit longer. The person he'd thought (hoped) would end him has instead tiptoed softly into his subconscious, rearranged his view of himself and made him realize he wishes to continue living.

Something else to ponder.

"Alright. Enough," Leliana declares into the stifling ennui. She stands up with a clap of her hands. "We need music."

"I have a small flute. I can play, if it would please you," Zevran offers, game for any distraction.

The other rogue smiles at him. "That would be lovely. Thank you, Zevran."

Zevran stands, bows with a flourish and walks to his tent to pull the flute from his pack. It has been some time since he played, but he will not pass up a chance at joviality in this dark time.

"Something lively, I think," he says as he returns to sit at his place by the fire. "Will you not dance, my dear Leliana."

"But of course."

"Will it be a naughty dance, do you think?" he asks with a waggle of his eyebrows as he teases out a few notes.

"Only if you promise not to look."

He laughs. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Putting the flute to his lips, he begins to play a jaunty tune he learned from the musicians at the brothel. He makes a few mistakes, but the sight of Leliana dancing around the fire, pulling everyone up to dance along with her, encourages him to muddle through.  
The Warden - he has yet to think of her as anything else, though she has repeatedly asked him to call her Neria - claps along from her seat by the fire. Leliana twirls and then reaches out to pull Wynne into the spin.

"Now, now, my girl, I'm far too old for that," Wynne protests.

"Nonsense!" Leliana counters. "I've seen you do far more intricate steps in battle."

Wynne doesn't agree, but she doesn't stop dancing, either. The two women take a turn around the fire before Leliana reaches out for Alistair. When the young Warden demurs, Leliana uses her surprising strength to pull him up anyway.

Zev watches them with careful eyes - these two companions who both pine for the elven Warden. He senses no underlying hostility from Alistair. The boy is likely too dense or naive to realize the depth of Leliana's feelings. A true ingenue, he is.

However, Leliana's too-wide smiles strike a chord within Zevran. In keeping with her rogue status, she hides under layers of impish charm, deflecting eyes and thoughts with ease. To say he is familiar with the tactic is such an understatement that he nearly laughs into his flute.

In this they are alike, presenting a fabricated face to the world. Leliana's mask tends towards kindness while his leans toward the overtly sexual.

"Come now, Alistair, don't hold back," Leliana coos to the young man. "I know you've got a true dancer in there somewhere."

"Everyone, everywhere would disagree with you, I'm afraid," Alistair mumbles as he looks down at his feet.

Leliana spins away from Alistair and reaches out to the Warden. Neria shakes her head, but as with Alistair, the red-headed rogue brooks no denial. She pulls the elf from her seat and the two begin to twirl around, laughing like children.

"So light on your feet!" Leliana exclaims. Then, lowering her voice, she adds, "And so lovely."

The uncharacteristically open comment catches Zevran off guard. His fingers, and consequently the notes, falter only a moment before he recovers himself. To Zevran's continued surprise, the Warden's cheeks bloom into a deep crimson. Flustered, she pulls away from Leliana to take up with Alistair, who has been attempting to sneak away. Under the Warden's attention, however, his face breaks into a tentative but warm smile.

Zevran's eyes snap back to where Leliana dances again with Wynne. The rogue's smile drips with sweetness. Her attention never waivers from her partner.

Or so she would have everyone believe. Zevran can see the hurt behind those too-bright eyes, notices the way she avoids facing the corner where the two Wardens circle one another like skittish colts on newborn legs.

The blush clings to Zevran's memory - a telling flush of red, a heat of blossoming feeling. He watches what Leliana refuses to see. The Warden's dance in circles, their bodies winding closer with each revolution. Despite the cool night air, Alistair's forehead glistens in the firelight, his hands trembling as they grip at the Warden's waist.

The Warden, however, exhibits only the slightest hint of nervousness, her movements easy, her closeness effortless, her cheeks cool and pale but for the sun burned undertone from long walks along treeless paths.

The Warden's single, furtive glance at the bard around Alistair's broad shoulder solidifies the suspicion creeping steadily into Zevran consciousness. He resolves keep his discovery to himself... for now. He does not wish to engender false hope if he is wrong.

But in this, he does not believe himself to be wrong.


	9. Morrigan. NO.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely refuse to believe Ali doesn't give as good as he gets from Morrigan. :)

"I will throttle you with my bare hands! Look away, Warden."

As Neria approaches her companions after the intense but thankfully quick battle, Morrigan's snarl rises from the back of the group to greet her. Neria blinks at the witch's vicious tone before realizing that only the last past of the statement had been directed at her. She sprints the remaining distance to where Morrigan and Alistair stand toe-to-toe.

"Wait, what?" she exclaims, looking between the two before settling her gaze on the other mage. "Morrigan, no!"

Upon closer examination, Neria notices the copious amounts of blood dripping down Morrigan's chest. More blood drips off the sword in Alistair's hand, and tension crackles in the air like leftover lightning magic. Neria fancies she can smell the ozone.

"Fine," Morrigan snaps, golden eyes flashing as she continues to glare at Alistair. "Perhaps I'll turn him into some type of vermin-"

"Morr-i-gan," Neria interrupts, her voice undulating with warning.

"Another mabari, then. Their intelligence levels are already well matched, would you not say so? And I would far rather deal with another drooling mutt than listen to this imbecile babble on for another instant."

" _Enough!_ " Neria spits through gritted teeth, her anger surging. "Go clean yourself up, Morrigan. We'll wait for you."

Morrigan finally breaks her death glare at Alistair to slide Neria a haughty glance. After a brief staredown, the witch turns to walk up the trail once more, leaving the rest of them to deal with the bodies of the bandits that had attacked them on the way to Denerim. The tension ebbs, but Alistair, usually so ready with a comeback, remains silent as they search the bandits' pockets for useful items.

They pile the bodies in a heap a little off the road, and the others move away as Neria and Wynne set the pile ablaze. Morrigan's magic would be helpful, too, but Neria has no desire to see or speak with the woman right now.

During the times they've spoken alone around the witch's campfire, Neria has felt a growing kinship with the defensive and prickly woman. Their views on magic are similar, and once or twice, the witch has offered a brief glimpse at a softer side underneath all that emotional armor. However, Morrigan's insistence on constantly demeaning Alistair makes it hard to remember that.

"Ali," she murmurs to the silent warrior when they begin walking after Morrigan, "what happened?"

He takes so long to answer that she thinks he won't at all. The gruff voice that finally emerges from chapped lips gives her pause.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Just typical Morrigan, you know, being a bitch."

She's not sure why - she's heard him say it before - but the language shocks her. Perhaps it's the edge in his voice - something bordering on hatred that chills her bones.

"I will speak with her about it."

 "No," Alistair says quickly, his voice cracking with the effort to keep it contained. "I don't want her to have any reason to hate you. If she can save you, I want her to do it without pause or thought that you took my side over hers."

"But I _do_ take your side," Neria counters. "Every time."

"In small ways that seem to be more about keeping peace than taking sides," he allows, "but if you talk to her alone..."

"I can be persuasive, Ali, don't worry about me. I just want you to know that no one else thinks of you like that."

"Sten does," Alistair quips with an exaggerated nod in Sten's direction.

Neria snorts and looks back at the Qunari trailing the group, ostensibly as a rear guard but more likely to avoid them all.

"Well, yes, I suppose Sten thinks that about all of us. We're nothing but a bunch of idiots according to him." She sidles up next to Alistair and grabs his hand. "Don't let it bother you."

He doesn't respond, but his hand curls around hers in a comforting and familiar way even as his face turns a rather becoming shade of pink. Neria pretends not to notice. A moment later, he clears his throat.

"True be told, I may have, uhhh, _accidentally_ sprayed her with a bit of blood while slicing through that last bandit."

Recalling the amount of blood covering Morrigan's chest, Neria's eyes widen. She barks out a surprised laugh as she jerks her head around to stare at him.

"A _bit_? More like a waterfall! I take back everything. You, my dear, are lucky to be alive."

Alistair turns toward her, free hand coming up to rest over his own blood spattered chest. His expression morphs into that snarky, faux sincerity she loves so much.

"I swear upon Andraste's knickers, I did _not_ purposefully take a stronger than necessary swipe at that last bandit after noticing Morrigan standing directly in the path of destruction."

At that, he winks at her. To her chagrin, she blushes.

"Yes. Well. Perhaps I'll leave off talking with her about this particular incident," Neria concedes before her expression sobers. "But can you at least _try_ not to antagonize her in the future, hmmm?"

"Ha! That's like asking a person not to breathe. Especially me. I’m fairly certain my breathing actually annoys her." His brows furrow as he looks at her skeptically. "Wait. Are you asking me not to breathe? Because I would do almost anything for you, but I draw the line at not breathing."

Neria laughs half-heartedly, her mind focusing not on the joke but rather the reasons he might stop breathing. A sharp ache contracts her chest inward.

"No, no. Keep breathing, Ali," she responds in a suitably playful tone.

_Always keep breathing._


	10. That's logic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neria loses Zevran and gains some insight.

"Well, this is unexpected."

Zevran's voice echoes across the chasm to where Neria stands with Oghren and Sten.

"Where in the Void have you been?!" Neria squeaks. She hates how her voice betrays her relief and fear, but it can't be helped. "And how in the Maker's name did you end up over there?"

The descent into the Deep Roads has been nothing but one problem after the other. On top of that, she's left her two most constant companions behind for... reasons. Traveling with an inappropriate dwarf and a Qunari who only recently stopped hating her (thank you pretty paintings) perhaps hadn't been her best choice, but she can't risk bringing the only other Grey Warden on a mission like this. And Leliana...

"I became separated during the skirmish, I'm afraid," Zevran explains, his words cutting into her thoughts. "I thought I'd attempt to circle 'round, but it seems the Deep Roads are determined to thwart my attempts at cleverness."

"We'll have to backtrack," Oghren says, but even from across the abyss, Neria sees Zevran shake his head.

"We have come too far," Sten argues. "We must continue to move forward if we are to reach our goal."

A spike of fear lodges itself in Neria's chest as she looks back to Zevran. "There must be an answer that doesn't involve you wandering the Deep Roads by yourself."

Zevran shrugs. "I have survived thus far. Do not fear for me, lovely Warden. I am sure to find my way back to you, for who could stay away from such beauty for long?"

Neria scrunches her face in displeasure. "If we could just stop a moment and think about this logically-"

"If you were logical you would’ve killed me long ago. And you would certainly not worry about my death now."

This fires Neria up. As it's meant to, she supposes. Zevran is clever like that, amping her fear into some other emotion when he sees her faltering. All the fears swarming her since they'd realized he'd gone missing now solidify into the realization that this cheeky assassin has become a good friend... and she would be devastated to lose him.

Looking around, she spies a ledge along the wall to her right. Without further discussion, she takes off, hugging the shear rock behind her. Oghren and Sten follow, though Sten barely fits on the narrow path.

But she _will not_ lose sight of Zevran again. When she looks over, the strange, ever-burning dwarven torches illuminate his jaunty stride as he keeps pace with them from across the chasm. Neria shakes her head in reluctant amusement. After all these weeks together, he's crept into her good graces like the assassin he is, slipping in unnoticed until the situation grows dire enough to reveal the truth.

Her torch burns low as they walk on, but she doesn't get out a new one. Who knows how long this journey will last and what supplies they will need? So they walk forward in the diminishing light.

The chasm wends on for miles. They are forced to stop and climb a few times, Oghren complaining profusely each time, but eventually, the path widens and the chasm narrows. As the edges grow closer, hope grows in her chest, expanding to push out the fear. But it rushes back in an instant later when, without warning, Zevran breaks into a run.

"Zev, what's wrong?! What are you-"

She cuts off, her heart plummeting to her stomach as Zevran's feet leave the ground in a giant leap. His body arcs in the dim light, a graceful curve that reflects either flare or technique. With Zevran, it could be either. Or both.

Only when his feet touch the ground on their side of the chasm does she come back to herself. His knees bend to absorb the shock with feline grace, and his feet scuff softly against the stone. She sprints forward, catching up to him just as he stands up, and throws her arms around him.

"You idiot!" she yells into his shoulder. "You could have fallen!"

His arms wrap around her in a comforting embrace before he releases her and pulls back to give her a saucy wink. "What kind of assassin would I be if I couldn't jump from rooftop to rooftop, ledge to ledge? Not a very good one, that is for certain. Probably a dead one, too."

He laughs at this, and she smacks him in the arm. "Stay close from now on. I won't be left to deal with the drunk and the giant alone."

"Ah. Your true reason for concern emerges."

"You... No!"

She narrows her gaze at him. "Logical or not, you're my friend. I don't like my friends to be in more danger than necessary."

"I assure you, Warden, I will avoid unnecessary danger as much as is possible under the circumstances."

"Good."

"It is lovely to know you care," Zevran adds in a sly voice. "Perhaps we might-"

"No."

Zevran laughs softly. "I didn't think so. Your thoughts are too full of a certain red-headed beauty, I think."

Neria frowns. Alistair is more strawberry blonde than a redhead, but that's beside the point.

"Alistair and I are just friends."

Zevran chuckles as Oghren and Sten catch up to them, and they begin walking together. Neria's frown deepens at this clear dismissal of her words.

"We are! Friends can hold hands. It's not strange."

"Certainly not," Zevran agrees. He then pauses before leaning in to add, "But it is not Alistair to which I refer."

Neria glances back at the dwarf trailing them before whispering to Zevran, "Oghren's not really my type."

"You are being deliberately obtuse, my young friend," Zevran says with another laugh. "Very well. You may wallow in your self-imposed obliviousness a bit longer. I will not ruin it for you."

At this, he leaves her to her own thoughts and falls back to trade insults with Oghren. But the sweet image he'd conjured of the only remaining redhead in their party stays with her for the rest of their trip.


	11. An End and a Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neria finally admits to herself what everyone else already knows - with Wynne's help, of course.

"My dear, whatever are you doing out here in the dark by yourself?" Wynne asks in that way she has, mild censure making a person at once feel cared for and like the lowest worm on the planet. "It's not safe."

Neria flicks away the tears gathered in her lashes. She considers hiding the precious gift, but something stills her hand. The light of the moons is enough to reveal even to an old woman's eyes the treasure held in trembling fingers. Not clutching as one would a rugged momento, but cradling delicately, cautiously, like supporting the thinnest glass globe, praying it doesn't shatter from the pressure of clumsy fingers.

"Oh, that's lovely," Wynne comments when Neria doesn't answer. "A gift from Alistair?"

Neria nods her head but remains silent while Wynne carefully settles beside her on the fallen tree trunk. Somehow, Wynne knows to remain silent as well. The stars creep past them, and the distant murmur of their companions at the camp wafts over warm winds to mingle with the symphony of a summer night.

"I shouldn't have accepted it," Neria whispers suddenly.

"Because it means something to him but not to you?" Wynne guesses, but Neria shakes her head.

"No. It means everything. Too much." Neria inhales air heavy with moss and earth and the promise of rain. "He's bound for better things."

"Is that the whole truth?"

Neria frowns. "Y-yes?"

Wynne hums her disbelief into the dark. A cool breeze brushes against Neria's cheek for the briefest moment, and she shivers.

"I've noticed that you and Alistair are very close, but..."

Wynne's words taper off. A flash of irritation extracts words from Neria's mouth before she can hold them back.

"What are you getting at? You've never pulled your punches before."

Wynne lets loose a grandmotherly chuckle. The kind that makes Neria ache to her bones for the family she barely remembers - chubby fingers reaching upward for nameless, faceless forms, impressions of love in place of memories. Neria's irritation fades as quickly as it flared. She stares into the petals, the blood red muted to deep maroon in the silvered light of the moons, and listens as Wynne begins to speak.

"You may think it none of my business, but I've observed you and Alistair these past months. Although I admit your feelings for one another are deep, I wonder... Are you mistaking your close bond, born out of shared tragedy, for romantic love?"

"Love?" Neria asks weakly.

"Isn't that what a red rose means, dear?"

Neria's breath stutters in her throat. "I... I suppose. I hadn't..."

Supporting the rose in one hand, she brings the other to her face and covers her eyes. All the doubt, the fear, the _pragmatism_ she's held at bay in a foolish bid to extend the fairytale now breaks through her defenses.

She doesn't know if it's _that_ kind of love. But it _is_ a kind of love. The kind that drives a person to ignore messy, real life in favor of a fantasy.

Pain throbs in her chest with all the devastation of a swinging maul. Neria knows what happens to elves who reach above their station. Even Circles can't erase ingrained hate. Even the crest of the Wardens won't somehow blind everyone to the long taper of her ears, though perhaps she'll gain some leeway if she can stop the Blight.

But Alistair is a _prince_. If she doesn't protect herself now, when the time comes, she'll be the one to suffer. Where he must go, she cannot follow.

It scorches her heart like a brand.

"He's more dear to me than anyone else. What difference does it make what kind of love it is?"

Wynne is silent a moment before uttering a quiet, "I see."

The silence wraps around them again, but Neria barely notices. Her world contracts to the pain building in her chest. To the realization that she cannot keep the precious gift held between careful fingers.

She feels deeply for Alistair. Romance does seem like the next logical step... though it doesn't sit quite right in the pit of her stomach. A whisper of something stirs in her heart.

Perhaps it's best if she carves out boundaries now. Best to leave them both bleeding but still whole, before romance turns the carving into a butchering.

And yet, even now, her body rebels at the loss of him - the loss of that unconditional support and, yes, _love_ in return. Will he cut her off? Deny her what they already have because she dare not offer more?

The heart's whisper gains coherence, a soft murmur that she _cannot_ offer more... for reasons other than fear and prudence.

Neria lets out a soft groan at the emotions spinning webs inside her. Misery digs in, binds her up. The suffocating spiral is broken only by the soft voice at her side.

"Is it only he that is dear to you? I had thought your feelings turned in a different direction these days. Might another companion offer a more abiding connection than even your fellow Warden?"

Neria blinks, misery shoved to the background by the hint of mystery in Wynne's words. "Another? Who?"

Wynne clucks her tongue. "I think you know."

The heart's whisper turns into a hum. With Zevran's recent observation ringing in her ears, claiming ignorance tastes like the lie it is. Even Alistair has asked her about it.

Neria can't pinpoint the exact moment shimmering red hair, quick fingers and lilting melodies shifted from observed qualities to cherished virtues. Or when stories laced with daring and romance ceased to be a diversion and became a prayer. Or when words of hope and faith turned from interesting commentary into her soul's nourishment.

To Neria's chagrin, heat blooms in her cheeks at the remembrance of the dreams that come to her in the dark of night - not always dragons and darkspawn. Sometimes, now, the world behind her closed eyelids brings whispers of devotion, sighs of pleasure, and flashes of pale skin and passionate blue eyes.

"But..." Neria swallows as the ache in her chest pivots toward sharp longing and fear. "What if sh- this person doesn't feel the same?"

Neria whispers the last part. She's only begun to acknowledge the feelings that have blossomed like the rose between her fingers - beautiful and fragile and terrifying. Easily crushed with a careless word. Wynne chuckles, and Neria frowns.

"Take it from an old woman used to observing from the sidelines. You have nothing to worry about on that account." Wynne slowly stands before turning to pat Neria on the shoulder. "But a word of advice?"

Neria nods. Wynne gives a final pat before dropping her arm to her side.

"Don't begin another story before you've concluded the first. That only brings pain and loss."

Neria swallows, the lump forming in her throat threatening to choke her. She nods again, and Wynne extends her hand. Neria stands, and together, they head back to camp.


End file.
